Rose Rivers Read online

  Grandmama had already finished her breakfast. Grandpapa was still leisurely sprinkling salt on his porridge, a strange Scottish habit that always astonished me. Mama wasn’t down yet, much to my relief.

  ‘Where’s Jeannie then, Edward?’ Grandmama demanded, dabbing her lips with her napkin.

  ‘Oh, she’s getting ready. I think she’s already changed her dress twice and torturing your little maid because she doesn’t care for the way she’s done her hair,’ said Papa jovially.

  ‘Wee Morag is my own maid and she’s extremely competent,’ said Grandmama. ‘It’s not her fault if Jeannie demands all those fussy ringlets.’

  Grandmama’s hair is iron grey and straight as a ruler. She wears it scraped back so tightly it must make her scalp tingle. She sat bolt upright, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth.

  ‘Where is the girl?’ she demanded. ‘I need to discuss one hundred and one things about the party tonight.’

  ‘Now, dear, Jeannie is a guest in our house. You shouldn’t rope her in to help organize everything,’ said Grandpapa, munching. Pennycuik porridge is peculiarly thick. Rupert says the ingredients are oats, water, and a pound and a half of glue.

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ said Grandmama. ‘It’s her duty to help her mother!’

  It seemed you were never excused daughterly duties, even when you had seven children yourself.

  Mama came into the room when everyone else had breakfasted and the servants were shuffling their feet, waiting to clear the dishes. She was wearing her best blue silk, the dress she wore for her portrait. It seemed a strange choice, especially as Pennycuik was so cold. She was wearing her new sapphire earrings as well as the brooch, and she’d applied her cologne so liberally she overpowered the smell of bacon and eggs.

  ‘My Lord, Jeannie, you’re not dressed for the party already!’ said Grandmama.

  ‘Of course not, Mama,’ she said.

  Paris stood up for her as she joined the table. ‘Your dress looks stunning as always – and, my goodness, your earrings are beautiful,’ he said. ‘I think I shall have to add them to your portrait, Mrs Rivers.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Mama, smiling at him. She let him settle her in the chair next to his.

  ‘Well, eat up, my dear, though there’s scarcely any porridge left,’ said Grandpapa.

  ‘Don’t dally, Jeannie. There’s so much we have to do,’ said Grandmama. ‘The Christmas greenery is looking very tired. I’ll ask the gardener and his boys to fetch some more, and I thought you might arrange it for me. You’ve always had the knack of making flowers look pretty. And then you can be in charge of wrapping the party favours. I need your help on the dietary front too. I only discovered yesterday that the wretched Lady Provost has such a delicate constitution she can’t consume animal products, so what on earth am I going to give her? Can you think of an equivalent to Arbroath smokies and good Angus beef? Apparently she can’t even eat Clootie Dumpling because of the suet! Did you ever!’

  Grandmama droned on and on like a Scottish Mrs Beeton.

  Mama was barely listening. ‘Perhaps a medley of vegetables, Mama? But I’m not sure I’ll have time to do any chores. Paris has brought his painting equipment, so I thought this would be an ideal opportunity for him to work on my portrait,’ she said. ‘Wait till you see it, Mama. It’s a work of art.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jeannie, it’s a work of art by very definition,’ said Grandmama.

  ‘I would have loved to continue, Mrs Rivers, but I’ve failed to bring the portrait itself. I didn’t want to risk damaging it on the journey,’ Paris said quickly.

  Mama didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Of course! But never mind – perhaps you’d care to start some preliminary sketches for the next portrait, in profile this time? I thought that would be a novel idea,’ she said, turning her head and demonstrating, her hand at her throat to hide her double chin.

  ‘It would be a great honour, but I’m not sure I can manage to make a start today,’ Paris said.

  ‘You’re not quick enough off the mark, Jeannie,’ said Papa, draining his cup of tea. ‘I’ve bagged Paris for myself. We’re going sketching. I thought I’d take him up the coast to Monifieth. Rose is coming too, aren’t you, my dear. She seems very keen.’

  ‘I dare say she is,’ said Mama icily. She looked at me for the first time that morning. ‘But you must stay and help Grandmama.’

  ‘Oh, Mama!’

  ‘Don’t spoil the lassie’s fun, Jeannie. Let her go off gallivanting if she wishes,’ said Grandpapa. ‘I’m taking Rupert riding, and I’ve ordered the carriage to take Nurse and the little ones to Balgay Park. Come on then – let’s be off and leave the womenfolk to their planning.’

  I was off before Mama could think of another ploy to keep me there. I rushed up to the amber room to fetch my coat and hat and sketchbook and pencils. I found Beth back in her underwear, shivering and crying, while Nurse Budd wagged her finger at her.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked. ‘You’re frightening her! What have you done with her dress?’

  ‘Miss Beth took it upon herself to spit her porridge all down her bodice,’ said Nurse Budd. ‘I’ve scrubbed hard, but it’s stained.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t very smooth porridge, and you know she hates to eat anything lumpy. You shouldn’t have forced her to eat it,’ I said fiercely.

  ‘What am I supposed to do, let the child starve to death? She’s skin and bone as it is,’ said Nurse Budd, taking hold of one of Beth’s thin arms and giving it a little shake.

  Beth screamed and hit out at her.

  ‘Now now, that’s very naughty, isn’t it, Miss Beth. You don’t want to make Nurse Budd cross, do you?’

  ‘Don’t, Beth! Do calm down,’ I said. I tried to distract her the way Clover did. ‘Shall we see if we can find you another dress to put on? Then you can go on an outing with Nurse and the others to Balgay Park. It’s lovely there – do you remember? There’s that little bridge you like to run across, and the wooden summer house. When I was young I liked to pretend that it was my own little house. You and Clarrie could play house together,’ I said.

  ‘Play house together,’ said Beth, looking at me.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t come to the park, Beth. I’ve got to go sketching with Papa and Mr Walker,’ I said, sighing as if it were a tiresome duty, and then bolted out of the room.

  I bobbed into the nursery to find Clover. She was trying to get Algie and Clarrie into their warm Scottish outfits while Nurse fed Phoebe, grumbling that Cook had given her the wrong kind of milk.

  ‘I know this is far too creamy and rich and it’ll upset her,’ she kept muttering, though Phoebe was guzzling down her breakfast with evident relish.

  ‘I’m not wearing that stupid skirt again,’ Algie shrieked, running around in his drawers.

  ‘I’m not either,’ said Clarrie, copying him.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Miss Clarrie, you wear skirts every day,’ said Clover, catching her and swinging her up in the air to stop her pouting.

  ‘Yes, but the kilt is so stiff and it makes me itchy,’ said Clarrie. ‘And so does my jumper. And my under-things. ‘

  ‘Mine too,’ said Algie, pulling down his drawers and kicking them off. ‘We’re not wearing anything at all! We’ll be monkeys!’ He started making monkey noises and pulling faces.

  Sebastian laughed. He was already dressed in his own kilt and sitting carefully in a nursery chair, his woollen socks pulled up neatly and his black shoes tied just so.

  ‘I’ll take you straight to the Zoological Gardens and put you in a cage,’ said Clover. ‘Though you haven’t a clue how to make real monkey noises. Listen, it’s like this.’ She demonstrated loudly, scratching under her arms for extra authenticity.

  Algie and Clarrie were so impressed they let Clover pull their underwear back on and buckle up the dreaded kilts.

  ‘What a terrible row! Call yourself a nurserymaid. You’re worse than the whole pack of children rolled together,�€